


One Last Hope

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Reincarnation, Torture, disturbing images
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta knows only that he is supposed to protect her. He doesn't know why and figures out the how along the way, but he knows that he's meant to protect her. A retelling of the Legend of Hercules and his Twelve Labors, written for everlarkianarchives.tumblr's February Everlark Ever After Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Hope

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: RATED M for violence and blood, CHARACTER DEATHS, REINCARNATION THEMES, religious connotations, mild sexual content, language, torture, disturbing images.
> 
> This is NOT a simple rewriting of Disney’s animated version of Hercules, although some inspiration was pulled from the film, the myths were used more heavily. In the tradition of Disney, I have taken liberties with the source material to make this Everlark’s story. More author’s notes at the end. 
> 
> GOOD NEWS: It all turns out okay…somehow. Eventually.
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins and have no ownership over The Hunger Games trilogy or the characters. I am not in any way associated with Walt Disney Studios and have no ownership over Hercules (1997) or the versions of the characters within that work. This is some creative fun and results in no profit for me beyond enjoyment and expression.
> 
> I must thank Konzelwoman(everybirdfellsilent) and riverknowshisname(peetasallhehasleft) for organizing this wonderful support group and writing challenge, and also for being understanding when I could not meet my original deadline.
> 
> A special thank you to lifeloveanddance over on tumblr who held my hand and listened to my whining when I was ready to give up. You are an amazingly kind and wonderful person, my dear!
> 
> And to titania522, abbythebear, and jamiesommers...Thank you for catching my horrible tense inconsistencies, overuse of pronouns, and awful word choices. Without your beta skills, this would be a mess. Thanks for making me laugh even as I wrote this pile of pain and darkness.  
> Also, my lovely betas would like you all to know in advance that I am an a**hole. :-)

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**_A true Hero isn’t measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart._ **

**_–HERCULES (1997) Walt Disney Animation Studios_ **

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_Long ago in a far off land,_  
_Or so the fables tell,_  
_There lived a man of noble fame_  
_Proclaimed Hero throughout the world._  
_Blood of the gods,_  
_With strength unmatched,_  
_His deeds were known by all._  
_But his life, indeed his every breath,_  
_Gave insult to queen of the gods,_  
_A living reminder of faithless husbands._  
_In revenge, she would curse him,_  
_And turn his world into lucid nightmare…_

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The battle raged for three days before the Hero reached the steps of the palace. The exterior was scorched in places, collapsed columns had reduced an entire wing to rubble. He had little hope of finding anyone still alive, and could only hope that the royal family had fled days ago. A dozen enemies still stood between himself and the entrance to the palace. Without hesitation, he hacked his way through the lines, cutting them down with sword and club. The evil brutes stained the pristine marble with their putrid blood.

An arrow flew past the Hero’s ear, and, turning, he saw that it had slain one of his enemies, a hideous brute with blackened teeth and a bloody knife. The Hero knew he had been saved from a stab to the back. Retracing the path of the arrow, he saw a swirl of purple silk and black hair upon the palace roof. His hope of finding members of the royal family alive rekindled, he returned to the battle at hand.

With a swipe of his massive club, he dispatched the last enemy between his own soldiers and the ornate bronze doors. Heaving them open, he took in the sight. Healers draped in white chitons scurried through the palace, ordered about by a girl, almost a woman. She was graceful and lovely, despite her smudged face and her bedraggled golden hair that fell in pieces from the ornate knot atop her head. The healers kneeled before the injured laid out on makeshift cots throughout the great hall of the palace.

Upon spotting him, one of the healers screamed. He raised his hand and announced himself. Immediately, the crowd calmed and praised the gods, for they were saved. The golden haired girl approached and asked after his health, and appeased that he was uninjured, offered to take him to her father. It was then that he recognized the floral engravings on her silver ampyx, a headdress that marked her as of the royal family.

The golden haired princess led him to the throne room, and although there was much damage, he still marveled at the beauty of the structure, the ornate statuary and artwork that filled its noble halls. Upon the throne sat a man, weary and wounded, but the Hero could see he still proudly wore his crown. Kneeling before the King, he waited acknowledgment as the golden haired princess announced him.

“Rise,” said the King. “Let me look upon our Hero.”

As he stood, the Hero noticed the woman standing beside the king. Blood trickled from a cut on her forehead and small burn marks traced up her arms. Her black hair was tangled and her purple chiton ripped in places and stained in others. She was missing a sandal. But what captivated him were two things. First, her eyes of crystal blazed in a heat of emotions he could not decipher. Second, the quiver of arrows slung over her back and the bow clutched in her hand revealed her to be the archer that had saved him upon the palace steps.

“You have saved us from vile invaders,” the King proclaimed. “Name your reward.”

The Hero fell to his knees before the raven haired princess and bowed his head. “Princess, it is you who are the Hero today. Indeed, I owe you my life.”

He quickly relayed the tale to the King, insisting he could not have turned the invaders away without the help of those who held them off for so long. Brave souls who stood their ground in the palace and fired the timely arrow that saved his life. When he was done, the King ordered the Hero to rise once more. A look was exchanged between father and daughter, and, finally, the beauty spoke.

“My father speaks the truth. You saved us this day. And in saving you, I consider our debt repaid.”

The Hero nodded, and the agreement struck, soldier and peasant and royal alike set to work repairing the city. When enough had been restored, the king ordered a banquet. Light and dancing were the order of the day.

Fires burning in bronze braziers illuminated the palace. The king’s subjects filled the gardens and halls, and laughter danced on the air. At the king’s request, his daughters performed a song. The golden haired princess plucked the melody from the strings of a lyre while the voice of the raven haired princess floated over the crowds, weaving a spell through their senses.

Utterly captivated, the Hero knew he must marry the raven haired princess. And so he did, many months later. Their love was spoken of throughout the land and they lived a happy life for a time, blessed with many children.

But their story did not have a happy end.

The queen of the gods, angered by his continued felicity and ability to avoid her many traps, set about to destroy his happiness once and for all. Disguising herself as the raven haired princess, she lured our Hero away from their palace. As was his wont, he kissed his love under the apple tree where they often rendezvoused, unaware that it was a goddess in disguise, that her lips were poison of the worst kind. The Hero fell to sleep and with her plan underway, the goddess returned to his palace to await the moment of her triumph.

When he woke, our Hero was filled with poison. Confused and angry, he stumbled home, raving about enemies at the gate. Guards, seeing he was not in his right mind, tried to subdue him, but he slayed them with ease. The poison had altered his sight, you see, so that those he loved appeared as enemies.

Word reached the raven haired princess through a trusted messenger. After seeing her children to safety, the princess went out to confront her husband. Their shouts rang through the palace, drawing the goddess to watch the end of the battle.

The raven haired princess shot an arrow, lodging it into the Hero’s leg to slow him or subdue him. Tears began to stream down her face. She could not bear to kill him, yet had no idea how to break the hold of whatever madness had taken him. He tore the arrow from his flesh with a roar and backhanded a chair across the room. She rushed to put more distance between them, but imbued with madness, he was too fast for her.

Fingers grasped at her gown and her feet slipped, sending her sprawling on the floor with a cry. He kicked her bow away from her hands and she tried to evade him, scrambling backwards across the floor.

“My love,” she pleaded with him. “Please. Whatever you are seeing…it is not real.”

Her words only angered him and with his face contorted in loathing, he lifted her by the throat. She despaired at the sight of his eyes, obsidian pits that eclipsed the sky blue of his irises. Her fingers clawed desperately at his wrists. Unable to break his grip, she instead reached out to stroke his ashen blond hair. He flinched at the touch.

“Not real,” she breathed one last time before his hands squeezed the very life from her.

Satisfied with her revenge, the goddess lifted the madness from the Hero’s eyes that he might look upon what he had done, and left him to his anguish.

Hearing the Hero’s tortured cries, the sun god entered the palace and found the Hero weeping over the body of his beloved. Taking pity on the Hero’s fate, he offered a path for the Hero to cleanse himself, that he might once more be worthy of love. A series of labors that he must complete in purity of heart.

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_Long ago in a far off land,_  
_Or so the fables tell,_  
_There lived a man of cursed fate_  
_Proclaimed Hero throughout the world._  
_Blood of the gods,_  
_With strength unmatched,_  
_His deeds were known by all._  
_Some claim he performed Twelve Labors,_  
_Redeemed his soul and earned immortality._  
_Others yet say he swam with Death,_  
_To join his love in woe,_  
_And thus is where our tale begins._

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_Central Europe in the 12th Century..._

Stars still burn in a midnight sky when Peeta’s father shakes him out of dreams. They were lovely at first, but had eventually turned frightening. Shrugging off the remnants of the dream, he sits down to his morning gruel. His brothers are already bent over their bowls and Peeta quickly shovels his down. When he’s finished, he pulls out his scraps of parchment and a chalky piece of rock. He mumbles a little while he draws, trying to recapture the happier fragments of his dream, namely the song.

“Could you stop that?” Ryen asks, prodding Peeta with his spoon. “Trying to eat here.”

Their mother hushes them both and they fall silent.

There had been an apple tree in his dream, heavy with fruit, and a river that had clouds swirling in its depths. The river had sung to him with the most beautiful voice.

_Son of the sky, come swim with me. Wash away your fears and misery._

He didn’t have any idea what that meant, but before he could dive into the inviting waters, a boar and a lion had charged from the undergrowth and he’d ran. Thankfully, his father had woken him just as the lion was about to overcome him.

His mother taps lightly on the back of his head and he apologizes before stuffing the parchment back in the pouch on his belt and hurrying to join his brothers as they head out to work. Ryen grabs him around the neck and violently musses up his curls before shoving him towards the blacksmith hut. Peeta sticks his tongue out at them and they laugh, jogging to the fields to join their father. Instead of working the fields, though, Peeta had been apprenticed to the blacksmith when he was nine. Two years later, he does most of the work while Cray spends the days napping in the corner, the stench of ale issuing forth on his breath.

Peeta stokes the forge to build the fire back up for the day’s work. Cray is nowhere to be found. Perhaps still asleep in his quarters next door. Shaking his head, Peeta props open the door to let out some of the stifling heat and so he can at least see the sky while he works, even if he cannot feel the sunshine on his neck. Some days, he is happy to repair and build things. Others, he laments the fresh air and sunshine his brothers enjoy while they work.

The sun is just coming over the horizon when the warning bell rings, magnified in the frosty morning air. Shouts of men and the cries of children echo through the village. Peeta heads towards the keep, a small outpost of the family Everdeen. A pack of raiders gallop past and Peeta ducks behind a cart. He watches as they head south out of the village, towards the woods.

He should continue to the keep. But Peeta knows he has to help her. He cannot explain the tug in his gut when he’d first seen the girl yesterday, mounted on a chestnut steed beside her grizzled father, surrounded by a small hunting party. The village buzzed with the name of Everdeen, the wealthy family who owned the lands on which they lived and worked. Peeta had spoken of the girl in reverent tones. His mother had laughed at his story as he told it over dinner, scolded him for daydreaming instead of concentrating on his work and chores.

“Peeta!” A hand shoots out, yanking him back into the shadows.

“Release me!” He struggles against his brother’s grip, but it is no use. He’s never yet bested his brother in a wrestling match.

“We have to go this way!”

A high scream pierces the sky, and Ryen’s grip on Peeta loosens just enough for him to wriggle out of his arms and run for the field where he knows the hunting party made camp. He knows because he followed her last night and watched as they pitched their tents, unable to shake the feeling that they were destined to meet, despite their obvious differences in class. Peeta knew only that he was meant to protect her. With legs churning over the hard packed ground, he races to the field, sliding to a halt behind one of the many tents scattered in the clearing.

Her father lays motionless on the ground, a dark stain beneath him. He is likely already dead. A number of the hunting party are engaged in battle with the raiders, a few lay dead beside their leader. A terrifying beast with the head of a boar and body of a man holds the girl aloft, her legs kicking frantically, connecting with the chin of one of the raiders. He grunts and curses, slinging a slur at the girl. But the boar-man laughs, calls her a spit of fire in a tone that makes Peeta’s blood boil and his skin crawl, despite the kick of fear at the boar-man’s gruesome appearance.

When the boar-man’s gloved hand slides up under her skirts, she screams again, thrashing more violently. Peeta reacts, scooping a rock as large as his fist from the ground and hurling it at one of the raiders. It connects with a sickening thud, and the brute drops to the ground and stays. Fists flying, Peeta runs into their midst. The boar-man rages, flinging the girl to the ground.

Peeta kicks and punches, hardly seeing the faces of his enemies as he spins and ducks, hurling one over his head to land in the hot coals that remain from last night’s fire. Around him, the members of her hunting party rally and beat back the raiders. As the villains flee, the hunters give chase on foot, leaving Peeta alone in the field. He smiles in victory, only to have it cut short when the boar-man slips from his hiding place in one of the tents. Peeta makes to run, but the boar-man lunges. An arm wraps around Peeta’s throat, cutting off his air as rancid breath stings his nostrils. He squirms, but worn from the fight, can no longer summon enough strength to escape.

“You cost me a prize, boy. Now I take your life.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Peeta waits for death. A soft whistle precedes a squishy _thunk_. The boar-man collapses, taking Peeta with him. He lays stunned a moment until he sees the arrow protruding from the boar-man’s head and his blank stare.

With a cry of horror, Peeta scrambles free and stands, brushing grass and death from him. Quiet footsteps crunch the frost and he looks up to see her cautiously approach. Black hair, adorned with a thin braid wrapped over the crown of her head, falls in waves to her waist. She appraises him with eyes of ash and coals, her lips pursed. She holds an ornately carved bow with trembling hands, another arrow already nocked and ready to fire into his heart.

Raising his palms, Peeta shows her that he means no harm to her, that he is unarmed. Thunder of horse hooves rumbles as he opens his mouth to speak, warning of the approach of the rest of the raiders. There is no sign of her companions.

“Go,” he shouts to her. “I will delay them.” He knows not what fate he sends her to, but senses that it would be far more cruel should she be found here. “Run! Go!”

She falters, lowering her bow and looking to her father with tears in her eyes.

“Papa,” she whines.

“You can do nothing for him now.” Peeta grabs her arm and begins pushing her towards the woods. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes. “Get out of here!”

The gray eyed girl turns and looks to the woods a moment and, firming her lip, she yanks something from around her neck, pressing it into his palm.

“So I may find you.”

Then she kisses his cheek and turns to flee as the thunder grows louder, shaking the earth beneath his feet. Peeta watches the flash of her skirts as she disappears among the trees. Then, tucking the object into his belt, he faces the raiders as they crest the hill and enter the clearing.

The group surrounds him and the small pile of bodies. The raiders part ranks and reveal an image straight from Peeta’s nightmares. A man on a horse, dressed for battle and carrying a massive shield emblazoned with a lion. He wears the pelt of the same animal draped over his shoulders, the head still attached. After a quick survey of the destruction, the lion-man nimbly leaps to the ground. Walking to the boar-man, he braces his hands on his hips, staring down at the beast for long minutes. Then he kicks at the head, sending what turns out to be a war helm skittering across the frozen ground, the evil eyes staring up at the sky and the tips of the tusks now peppered with earth as it comes to rest, snout skyward.

A few of the raiders reign their horses back from the hideous thing, but the lion-man kneels on the ground, lifting the boar-man’s chin. He was just a man, Peeta realizes. And watching the two, he is struck by the resemblance. Swallowing thickly, he tries to control his pounding heart. He is certain they can hear it. He is going to die. Right here in the frozen morning, for killing a man whose name he does not know.

The lion-man stands to face Peeta, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Did you kill this man?”

“Aye,” Peeta squeaks, adding a nod to make it more convincing.

“Then where is your bow?” A raider asks, but the lion-man holds up a hand for silence, his eyes fixed on Peeta.

Licking his lips, Peeta’s mind races. He needs to convince them or they will search for the girl. She left on foot and they have horses. He needs to buy her as much time as he can.

“I did not use a bow.”

Laughter rings about the circle. A foolish boast from a child. The lion man shakes his head and walking to one of his raiders, slips an arrow from the man’s quiver. Then, turning to Peeta, he extends the arrow.

“Prove it, boy. Stab this arrow into his head as well.”

Peeta’s eyes frantically dart between the arrow and the lion-man and the boar-man.

“But,” Peeta stammers. “He is your brother?”

“Yes, boy. He is my brother. And a right pain in my ass. If you have killed him, then you have done me a favor. Prove it to me. Now.”

Reaching out a shaking hand, Peeta accepts the arrow, licking his lips as their caustic laughter fills his ears. He cannot do this. It will not work, and the raiders will kill him then set out to find the person with the bow. His entire body begins to quake as he kneels next to the man she killed to save him, looking into the sightless depths of the boar-man’s eyes.

 _God forgive me,_ he pleads. _Keep her safe as I could not._

His chest heaves as he lifts his arm, and screaming out his frustration, he slams the arrow down.

He expects to feel it snap in his grip. He expects laughter and jeering. Instead, the clearing falls deathly silent as his fist meets still warm flesh. He screams and crawls away from the boar-man, running into a solid pair of booted legs.

Hands reach down and lift him. Peeta sways on his feet as a pair of raiders hold him upright before the lion-man. He cannot seem to tear his eyes from the two arrows now protruding from the dead man’s skull.

“What is your name, boy?” Peeta opens his mouth but no sound issues forth. “We have time for your name later. For now, all you need know is my name. You will address me as Master Brutus. I claim you as my slave, in recompense for the death of my brother. Fear not, boy. I plan to give you a good life.”

The lion-man turns to address the raiders. “Gather your loot and ride out. Bring the body of Everdeen. We make for home first. The boy rides with you, Cato.”

In a daze, Peeta barely notices the ropes tied around his wrists and puts up no fight against the raider gripping his shoulders to toss him on a horse behind another. He dares not look at the token the girl with eyes of ash gave to him.

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Sweat pours down his face as he hammers at the blade, shaping it into an instrument of death. Outside, the calls and ribald laughter of the soldiers fill the morning air. Peeta longs to be outside today, likely to be one of the last warm days of autumn before winter sets in. But he cannot.

Gritting his teeth, he finishes this stage of the task and plunges the sword into the water trough. Steam explodes from the surface and the water gives a mighty hiss as it cools the blade.

“Boy,” a voice calls from the door. Hanging his head, Peeta turns to face his master.

“Aye, Master Brutus.”

“Finish your task then get out here. The men are restless and in need of decent targets.”

“Yes, Master Brutus.”

When the retreating footsteps indicate his master has gone, Peeta raises his eyes and glares out of the now empty doorway. He shakes his head to rid himself of errant thoughts. Eight years as slave to Master Brutus. Eight years bowing and scraping, obeying. Often, he has contemplated the woods surrounding Master Brutus’s holding, lands that had once belonged to the family Everdeen, forcibly seized the same year Peeta was made slave. Often, he has contemplated simply leaving.

Where would he go? He did not relish the thought of being hunted through the woods, although he did not fool himself into thinking that Master Brutus valued him enough to chase him down. It was the branding on his wrist, the emblem of a lion interwoven with the letter B that would reveal him for what he was, no matter where he ran.

Before returning to his work, he grips the gauntlet covering the brand and twists, a habit that has grown old after eight years of servitude and does nothing to remove the discomfort that the hardened leather bands cause. Once the sword repaired, he doffs his thick leather apron and heads out to the training fields. A rousing chorus greets him. They are bored and wish to have the wind knocked from them? Fine.

Peeta takes great care to fold his tunic and drape it over the rock wall that encloses the training space before sizing up the first soldier. The man eyes Peeta’s bulk and jerks his head to either side, stretching the muscles in his neck and flexing his fingers before forming them into fists.

With a roar, the soldier attacks.

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As the sky darkens, Master Brutus calls a halt to the training and slaps Peeta on the shoulder.

“Well done, boy. Well done. They are rusty and in need of more training. I may need your skills again tomorrow.”

“Yes, Master Brutus,” is all Peeta says. Dismissed for the day, he returns to his hut and finishes the tasks left while he was out training with the soldiers.

It is full night before he manages to finish his work and he heads to the kitchens, hoping there are still some scraps from dinner.

“Ach, there you are. I’d been wondering if you were going to eat today.”

“Good evening, Sae,” Peeta slips past the woman, briefly pressing his cheek to hers in greeting.

“You reek, boy. Take a bath.”

“Food first, my dear. Unless you’ve a pressing need for me to be naked.” He winks at her and a few of the kitchen girls giggle. Sae gives them a quelling look and they fall silent. He checks the spits and swiveling racks he repaired for her a few days ago, to ensure his work still holds.

“Lucky for you, I thought to save you something. Had to turn away a few peasants begging at the back door, mind you.”

“You should not have, Sae.”

She waves him off and hands him a small bundle. “Would have had to turn them away anyway, if you’d been here earlier.”

The food feels heavy in his palm and he leans down to kiss her wrinkled cheek in thanks.

“Molly came by earlier today, asking about you,” Sae says with a sly smile. Peeta shakes his head, ignoring her attempts at fixing him up with one of the maids. He knows she only wishes to see him happy, but if he’s going to drag a woman into marriage with a slave, he’s going to be sure it is for a love that will stand the test of their positions.

“Have you heard the news, Peeta?” Delilah, one of the kitchen girls asks, her hands still busy preparing dough for tomorrow’s bread, he sends her a look of thanks for changing the subject. Delly is one of the few people here that he calls a close friend. “Cashmere arrived today with her nieces. And two of them bear the name Everdeen.”

A chorus of excited whispers rounds the kitchen and Peeta’s heart kicks a little. He keeps his face neutral, though.

“Hush, Delly,” Sae admonishes. “She brought them as potential brides for Sir Brutus, not to free us from him.”

“But they could make things better, even as his wife,” Delly insists brightly.

“No need to spread false hopes, girl,” Sae mumbles.

Peeta thanks Sae once more and waves to Delly before ducking out of the kitchen, leaving them to their chatter about brides and change. He shoves aside any flickerings of hope at the mention of girls named Everdeen. It likely is not the same girl.

Dinner in hand, he heads down to the river and settles in the grass. Opening the bundle, he shakes his head. Sae should not provide him with so much. His rumbling stomach tells his brain to stop complaining, and he bites into the half-eaten loaf of crusty bread.

It makes no sense for a slave to eat better than many of the serfs. The bread tastes of ash in his mouth, but he eats all of the food. The wedge of cheese, and the slices of ripe pear, a delicacy he can hardly believe she was able to save for him.

Meal complete, he strips his clothes and walks into the river. The water is still icy cold and he shivers, but forces himself under the surface to gather a handful of silt. He uses it to wash his body, watching the ash and dirt float away in gentle swirls and eddies. Submerging himself once more, he scrubs his hair, emerging with a gasp.

When he turns to the river bank, he jumps at the sight of a woman sitting next to his clothing.

“You wear the clothes of a peasant, yet also have the gauntlets of a soldier. Explain yourself.”

She’s hidden in shadows, the moonlight only revealing the finely trimmed hem of her dark green gown. Conscious of his nudity and his precarious position if he’s found naked in such close proximity to an unaccompanied lady, he bows his head so as to speak to the river, not her.

“My lady. I am a slave belonging to Master Brutus of Everdeen. I serve as a blacksmith but also as an aide in training his soldiers. I earned the gauntlets through the latter service.”

She huffs and swears under her breath. “He is _not_ of Everdeen. Are you loyal to him?”

“I am a slave,” he says darkly.

“That does not answer my question.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I believe it does.”

She’s silent for a moment, pondering his words. Then she sighs.

“Very well, slave. I am in need of information. It will take too long to gather on my own, so you seem my best source. Tell me what I need to know and you shall have your clothing back.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but what makes you think I know what you seek?”

She snorts and scoffs, and Peeta risks a brief look up at her from under his lashes. He still can see very little, her head and face concealed under the hood of her cloak. But he does see the carved bow resting across her lap. A memory tickles at the back of his brain, dancing with the name Everdeen. Could it really be her?

“Slaves have ears and masters have wagging tongues,” she finally answers. “If you are entrusted with the training of troops as well as the jobs of a smith, then you may be my best ally. Do we have a deal?”

“My clothes for information?” He waits for her affirmative and then nods his assent. “What do you wish to know?”

“I need you to tell me how many men he has. His strengths and weaknesses. Any vulnerabilities in his fortifications. Rotations and guard schedules.”

“You seek to unseat him through battle?”

“That is my concern, not yours. Answer my questions.”

Peeta shifts nervously in the water, his feet stirring up the silt. “It may not be wise to attempt this.”

The lady stands and steps closer to the river’s edge, further into the light. A golden crest pins her cloak in place around her shoulders, a bird with an arrow clasped in its beak.

“You speak out of turn, slave.”

“Nay, my lady,” he reassures her. Quickly, before she can decide to shoot him, he gives the information she requests, watching as her shoulders sag beneath the weight of what he reveals, Sir Brutus’s many careful measures as well as his alliance with Coriolanus of Snow.

“He is prepared for attacks,” she says mournfully.

“My lady, if I may suggest an alternative.”

“Speak quickly, slave, and do not waste my time.”

“Indeed, Master Brutus is prepared for an assault. From the outside. If you were to undo his rule from the inside…”

“How would one accomplish such a feat?”

“Men do foolish things where women and power are concerned.”

She sits back down on the bank of the river, watching him. Then she reaches behind her and tosses his clothes in the water.

“Those need to be washed. You have the devil’s own tongue, slave. Why would you wish Sir Brutus overthrown? Does he not feed you and clothe you?”

“Aye, my lady,” he answers bitterly, dunking his clothes into the water and rubbing the fabric together in harsh movements to rid them of filth. “Feeds me table scraps and clothes me. Orders me to fight where I have no quarrel. To work for no coin in a sweltering hut until my knuckles bleed and my body aches. To hold my tongue and not have a thought or a breath that is my own.”

In the stillness after his words, Peeta washes his clothes and chastises himself for speaking so freely. He takes a quick peek at her to judge her reaction. Her head is tilted as she examines him. He can see rosy lips turned up in a half-smile, the end of her nose.

“What is your name, slave?”

“Peeta, my lady.”

“Very well, Peeta. Meet me here tomorrow evening after you have finished your labors. We will speak more. And you will keep silent about me.”

With a swish of her cape, she stands and disappears into the shadows.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

She stands out worse than a dove in a coterie of hawks.

Peeta swears under his breath and grasps her arm when he spots her in the alley next to his shop. He steers her into the back room, quickly, before she can protest and draw attention. As soon as he has the door closed behind them, she recovers her wits.

“Unhand me, brute. I…oh,” she trails off as she looks up at him.

Peeta gets his first good look at her and flinches from the blow to his sense. She’s beautiful. Wide gray eyes that pierce through him, swirling in ash and the fires of determination. Her lips are full and russet, ripe for kissing. He mentally kicks himself for that thought. She’s far above his station. And also very familiar. He thinks of the bow she held last night and once more wonders if this is the same gray eyed girl from his childhood. Seeing her clearly now, he starts to think it is indeed her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to speak to a lady?” She lifts her chin and he raises an eyebrow at her.

“A lady who would sneak upon a man at his bath and barter information for his clothes.”

Pink spreads across the tops of her cheeks and Peeta has to bite back a smile.

“I needed to see for myself. I cannot trust the word of a slave. It is easier to observe as a peasant.”

His jaw clenches, but he nods, understanding her need. “You stick out, my lady. And you were beginning to draw stares.”

She drops her gaze to examine her woolen peasant garb and cloak. “Where did I go wrong?”

Peeta smiles and reaches over her shoulder, rattling the arrows behind her. “A peasant woman would not have these. Especially not in so fine a quiver.”

“Oh,” she wrinkles her brow in a scowl and eyes him a moment. “Could I leave them with you?”

“I thought you didn’t trust the word of a slave.”

She shrugs, and removes the quiver, pulling her bow from underneath her cloak and handing both to

him. He hides them behind a pile of wood for the fires.

“You haven’t betrayed me yet. Besides, blacksmith. You seem familiar to me. My instinct tells me I can trust you. And my instincts are rarely wrong.” Peeta ignores her statement, as well as the sense of destiny growing in his heart.

The door to the main section creaks, warning of the arrival of a customer or master. They are too far from the back door for the lady to make an escape.

“Boy!” the soldier calls out and her eyes go wide in horror. Peeta hopes she’ll forgive him later. Then he wraps her in an embrace, bending her back a little and pressing his lips to hers. His body and the hood of her cloak should shield her face from the intruder’s view.

She squeaks, but doesn’t pull back, her gray eyes comically wide and fixed to his, her hands gripping his shoulders as they listen to the man halt, no doubt seeing them now. Air leaves her nose in harsh puffs against his cheek and his heart begins to hammer.

There’s a soft chuckle and the softer sound of boots retreating. The door creaks as it shuts.

Immediately, Peeta releases her and she glares at him.

“I should have you whipped for that.”

“Aye, my lady. You should,” Peeta runs a hand through his hair, unsettled by the tingling in his skull that trickles down his spine.

“You are lucky I still have need of your services, blacksmith. I will be back for my things later. And the river. Tonight. After the banquet.”

Peeta winces as she nearly slams the back door shut in her haste to exit.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

A blacksmith would never be repurposed to serve visiting ladies. Thus, Peeta spends the evening serving the villagers lucky enough to merit an invitation to Master Brutus’s banquet and stealing looks at the young woman seated next to Lady Cashmere.

Black hair hanging in a thick braid down her back and wearing a simple forest green frock, she appears completely unimpressed with Sir Brutus and his hospitality, tapping her finger on the table in annoyance when anyone other than the girl on her right tries to speak with her. The girl appears to be roughly four or five years her junior and sits demurely eating, her own yellow hair plaited in two braids. The older girl reaches out to clasp the younger girl’s hand on occasion.

Peeta’s eyes and his gut pull towards the girl with black hair and a knack for uprooting his world, drawn by some invisible thread. If his mother and brothers heard his thoughts now, they would laugh. Yet his father would understand. His father would nod and tell him that Fate is a strange mistress, connecting lives at seemingly random points, but God has a plan for all people and Fate does His bidding.

Returning to the kitchen to fetch more ale, Peeta blinks back the sudden pang of homesickness. Foolish to miss his family after so many years.

After that day eight years ago, when he helped the gray eyed girl escape, he was first dragged to Master Brutus’s meager holdings, just across the border of the Everdeen family’s lands on which Peeta and his family had lived on the outskirts of. A few weeks later, he was appalled to find himself moved to the Everdeen seat, the lands in shambles after a swift, brutal battle and now under Master Brutus’s control. Even as Master Brutus set to rebuilding and fortifying the place, the peasants often spoke longingly of the family Everdeen and their kindly rule. Of the wife and two daughters who seemingly vanished. Now a young woman carrying the name Everdeen and a carved bow arrives.

Peeta reaches into his tunic and pulls forth the wooden medallion, given to him along with a kiss on that fateful morning. He’s worn it around his neck ever since. Turning it over, he fingers the raised surface of the many-petaled flower. When she first gave it to him, the petals had been painted a bright yellow. Over the months, he toyed with the medallion whenever he was angry or scared or homesick. Eventually, the paint wore off. Once he had earned a favor from Master Brutus for deeds well done, he had requested a small amount of yellow paint. Master had thought it a silly request but still granted it. Every few years, Peeta renewed the request and thus, kept the yellow flower in bloom.

Flipping it over, he stares at the word carved into the back. _Katniss._ He cannot read, but he had often thought perhaps this was her name. One of the kitchen girls calls out to him and he stuffs the medallion back in his tunic before returning to his serving duties.

As the night wears on, he grows anxious. Eventually, Sir Brutus stands and bangs the hilt of his dagger on the table to gain the attention of the crowd.

“Welcome, to our honored guests. Lady Cashmere, your presence is always a great pleasure. To Lady Katniss and Lady Primrose, a warm welcome. I trust you have found Everdeen to your standards. Please allow me to offer my sincere, if somewhat late condolences for the passing of your father and mother. Lord and Lady Everdeen were generous people.”

A soft chorus of agreement rises from those seated at the tables. Lady Primrose bows her head as her sister once more takes her hand. But Lady Katniss continues to scowl at Sir Brutus, her eyes flashing with the fire and same brilliance as the hundreds of candles and torches lighting the hall.

“His passing was a great loss, but in uncertain times such as these, a firm hand is sometimes what is needed,” Sir Brutus continues. Peeta watches Lady Katniss, his own body stiffening as does hers. The villagers and serfs seated at the table near him shift uncomfortably and grumble. The message is clear, as Brutus finishes his welcoming speech, an attempt at rationalizing his seizure of the Everdeen lands. “I hope, Lady Katniss, that you and I can come to some form of agreement on the management of these lands. Indeed, I hope to work very closely with you.”

Sir Brutus gives her a slight bow before announcing music and dancing. Lady Katniss deigns to fractionally nod her head, her lips pressed tightly together in what would pass for a smile if one did not watch closely.

Tables are cleared and moved to make space for dancing and revels. Busy with the clean-up, Peeta almost misses Lady Katniss making apparent excuses to Sir Brutus and leaving the hall with her sister in tow. Peeta hurries to finish his duties, earning a questioning gaze from Sae as he slips from the hall.

When he reaches the river, the lady is not there yet. He settles in the grass and leans back on his hands to stare up at the sky. The soft _shush_ of leather on grass is his only warning of her approach.

“Your information was good, blacksmith. What care have you with such details of your master’s holdings?”

He smiles and turns his head a little, to better catch the lilting sounds of her voice. “Slaves have eyes and ears, my lady. Master Brutus would not trust me to go into battle with him and his men, but he would trust me with the protection of Everdeen.”

“Yet you spill all his secrets to me. His trust seems misplaced,” she says, blatant suspicion in her voice.

Peeta shakes his head. “You have me wrong, my lady. I would not protect his holdings, but the people I call friend and neighbor.” There’s a moment of silence as she contemplates his words and Peeta cannot resist. “Have I an arrow pointed at my back, my lady?”

“You have,” she answers succinctly.

“Seems a bit cowardly to shoot a man in the back. I did not take you for a coward.”

“I take no chances with a slave whom the soldiers fear. A man they curse with drunken breath and plot to finally beat in training. Tell me, blacksmith. Is it true they’ve yet to best you without using superior numbers?”

“Aye, my lady. But for all their plotting, they forget one thing. A man kept beneath the boot will use any chance to release his rage and break a few noses. It is how I have survived this long. How have you survived this long?”

“I told you last night. On the charity of relatives.” His silence begs for more of an explanation. She sighs and gives it. “My father was murdered and our lands seized eight years ago. He had a cousin known to be a fierce warrior. He took us into his keeping, protected us. I have spent eight years amassing my own troops, loyal to me, to reclaim these lands. They are well trained but few in number. My problem now is that he too has passed into the next world and my aunt, the estimable Cashmere, wishes to see me wed, claiming that I have a choice. I may marry either Brutus or Sir Coriolanus.”

He can tell by the vitriol in her voice just how appealing she finds either option. “Your aunt is a close friend to both. Sir Brutus answers to Sir Coriolanus Snow, an old alliance, but both covet the lands and power the other holds.”

She sucks in a sharp breath as the implications sink in.

“A marriage to you would give either of them a strong claim to Everdeen, to say nothing of the obedience of the serfs. Highest bidder wins and Lady Cashmere gets a small fortune.”

She makes a small sound of terror or disgust. “She would auction me in marriage? Use me as something no better than property?”

Her words strike a chord with Peeta. Property. For all her fine dresses and days with a full belly, Lady Katniss is in many ways, no better off than he.

“And Sir Coriolanus. Is he a man of honor?”

Peeta scoffs and tells her the tamer rumors of Sir Coriolanus. Poison and murder. Two wives already dead as well as a number of rivals and allies.

“Why have I not heard these stories before?” Lady Katniss asks.

“No one dares speak ill of Sir Coriolanus for fear of retribution.”

“You do.”

“I have an arrow pointed at my back, my lady. And I am a slave. My words, my life, are worth nothing.”

“Your plan, blacksmith. Tell me your plan,” she demands, a small tremor in her voice.

“Tis just a thought, my lady. But if one were to facilitate a quarrel between the two by confirming what they probably fear but cannot prove, how tenuous their status with Lady Cashmere and all she has to offer truly is. Not just you and your sister and thus Everdeen, but the ear of the nobility. Then they may act rashly. Sir Coriolanus visits in a week’s time to gather taxes and survey the lands. The first time both Cashmere and Coriolus will be under the same roof as Sir Brutus. If a personal article belonging to Lady Cashmere were found in his bedchamber…”

“Sir Brutus might fear his position with Lady Cashmere enough to take action and make an attempt to claim his master’s power for himself.”

Nodding his agreement, Peeta listens to the soft swish of her skirts as she shifts.

“You have thought this through, blacksmith.”

“What would you have me plot instead? Further obsequiousness to my master?”

She laughs lightly, and her dress rustles as she paces behind him.

“I will need to contemplate this. We will speak again in a few days’ time. Wait here for ten minutes before returning to the hall.”

“Yes, my lady,” he says, but there is no answer. When he turns, all he finds is a wall of shadows and trees.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

In the week leading up to Sir Coriolanus’s visit, Sir Brutus works his soldiers to the bone, drilling and preparing. Peeta is overwhelmed with tasks. Weapons and carts to be fixed or built. Horses to be shod. Repairs to the outer fortification to the hall. Training with the soldiers. Until he hardly has time to consume the scraps that Sae sets aside for him before he falls into bed.

It is not until the day before their guest is expected that Sir Brutus, with a satisfied grin after a particularly brutal yet successful training session, tells Peeta to rest and take the afternoon off for good behavior. The backhanded insult chafes, but Peeta bows and thanks him for his kindness. He heads first to the kitchens, hoping to find some spare food.

“Good lord, my boy,” Sae exclaims. “You look exhausted.”

Instead of answering, he kneels before the fire to check the pot roasting the stew for the evening meal. “Does the bottom of this need thickening, Sae? I could take care of it for you this afternoon if you’ve another.”

“No, dearie. It can wait until tomorrow. What cannot wait is an explanation as to who the lass is that was spotted kissing you in the blacksmith’s hut.”

“That is between me and the lass,” he says in a teasing tone before swerving back to a safer topic. “More guests arrive tomorrow. And all must be perfect for the liege, even if he is rumored to have a limp snake for a pet.”

A few of the girls titter and snigger as Peeta shakes in mock horror, but Sae clucks her tongue. “Watch that mouth of yours, boy. It needs a good scrubbing as badly as you do.”

He stands and smiles at Sae, putting aside thoughts of one he cannot have and stalking the cook across the kitchen. “Come now, Sae. I heard that you liked a man with a filthy tongue.”

“Ach, wicked boy. You’ve been listening to the gossips again, you have.” He reaches out to pinch her, but she smacks his hand playfully with a wooden spoon, a wide grin splitting her wrinkled face. “Flirt with the younger maids or your mystery peasant girl. I haven’t energy for you.”

“Oh but you’ve energy for the cobbler,” he teases, wrapping her in a hug and squeezing her, arms pinned to her sides so she cannot use the spoon on him again. The laughter abruptly stops as someone clears her throat from the doorway. He looks up and carefully sets Sae aside before dropping his head.

She looks lovely today in a dress of wine colored fabric, the bell sleeves laced up to keep them out of her way. She wears gauntlets, her quiver strapped to her back and her bow in her hands. Her cheeks are flushed as though she’d just been out riding or exercising. Perhaps practicing her shooting. A few wisps of hair escape her braid and curl softly around her face. It is the first he has seen her up close since their last meeting at the river.

“My apologies for interrupting, madam Sae. I wondered if there were any more of those meat pies from the noon meal.”

“Yes, my lady,” Sae answers and waves to one of the kitchen girls, who rapidly plucks a few from a tray and wraps them in a cloth. “Would you care to have them warmed up, my lady?”

“No need,” she answers. “I thank you.”

Peeta bows and the others curtsy as Lady Katniss leaves the kitchen. As soon as she is gone, one of the girls bursts back into laughter and Sae admonishes the girl before turning to scold Peeta.

“A bath, boy. And a good scrubbing for your mouth while you’re at it. No telling what obscene things the poor lass overheard.” She wraps a few of the meat pies and shoves them in his hands before guiding him towards the back door. “And no more gossips either.”

“Yes, mother,” he demurs and dances out of reach as she swats at his retreating backside with her spoon.

The walk to the river is a balm, the fresh air and the sunshine combine with the laughter from the kitchens to clear his head and lift his spirits. After a week of continuous work and little free time, this is precisely what Peeta needs. He ties the meat pies in a bundle then sets them on a rock to warm in the sunshine before jumping into the cool water, sighing as it washes away his week. He scrubs his clothes with the bar of soap one of the maids traded to him in exchange for fixing a lock on her chamber door. Once they are stretched across a rock to dry in the sun, he washes himself and takes a few moments to swim.

An entire afternoon of leisure. He hardly knows what to do with himself.

Leaning back, he lifts his feet and floats, staring up at the sky. Clouds race across the pristine blue surface, borne on some unseen wind. A small splash nearby draws his attention and he looks to the bank. With a cry of alarm, he drops his feet and loses his balance, sending him splashing into the river’s depths.

When he surfaces, sputtering in protest, he glares at the laughing imp sitting on the grass.

“We need to stop meeting this way, blacksmith.”

He shakes the water from his hair then tilts his head to clear it from his ears. A wicked idea comes to him and he wades towards the bank. When his body begins to rise from the water, the laughter disappears from her face and she holds out a hand.

“Stop right there. You are not clothed.”

“You keep interrupting my bath, my lady. I wonder at your timing.”

Redness floods her cheeks, but her eyes still skim over his chest. He raises an eyebrow, and knowing it’s foolish, cannot resist the urge to tease her.

“Should you successfully claim these lands, my lady, everything Sir Brutus owns becomes yours.”

The insinuation is not lost on her and her eyes snap back up to his as the flush spreads down her neck. She stands and spins, turning her back to him and pacing to the woods.

“I have excellent hearing, blacksmith. I will know if you approach,” she announces and nocks an arrow in her bow.

He smiles and pulls himself from the river, shaking the water from his body. Peeta pulls on his braies, trousers, and his shirt, all still a little damp.

“Will this do, my lady?”

She turns and examines him, and with a sharp nod, marches back over to stand before him. Too close for her bow to be of much use, even if she hadn’t already returned her arrow to her quiver.

“Your plan. I wish to try it. But first explain to me why you are willing to risk your life to help me. You do not even know me.”

He steps back and his hand automatically seeks out the medallion around his neck, unsure how to explain this feeling he has about her. Her eyes follow his motions and widen, her lips parting to reveal her teeth and a moist, pink tongue.

“Where did you get that? Let me see it!” She demands before she allows him to answer. He pulls the medallion over his head and places it in her outstretched palm.

She examines it, her thumb running over the flower before she takes a deep breath and turns it so her name faces her.

“I owe you my life,” he whispers. “I carry that with me always. Thinking one day you really would find me again.”

Lady Katniss’s head snaps up and she searches his eyes. “I hoped…that is, I thought it might be you.”

He closes her hand around the medallion, pushing it towards her, but she shakes her head. “No, I want you to keep it. You would not owe me your life if I did not owe you mine first. And they made you a slave? I escaped and you were made a slave.”

He winces at the anguish in her voice. “Do not fret, my lady. ‘Twas but a small fall in rank for the third son of a wheat farmer.”

She shakes her head, but he can see the small spark in her eyes, the twitch of her lips. Setting her bow on the rocks, she places the medallion back around his neck, tucking it into his tunic. Her fingers brush his skin as she does so, making them both jump.

“Peeta,” she says.

“No,” he refuses. “You cannot call me that. Slave, boy, blacksmith, but not my name, my lady. Such familiarity will arouse suspicion.”

Her eyes narrow and she tugs on the leather cord the medallion hangs from. “You bound us together that day, Peeta. Whether you meant to or not. We saved each other. So I will call you whatever it pleases me to call you when only the river and the trees bear witness.”

Bringing his hand up, he wraps his around hers that holds the leather cord. “As you wish, my lady. But you cannot use my name elsewhere. Promise me.”

“I promise, Peeta. Will you call me by mine when we are here?”

With a groan of frustration, he hangs his head. “You ask too much, my lady.”

She tugs once more on the cord. “Look at me when you speak to me. You are not a slave to me.”

“Alright, Katniss,” he says, lifting his eyes in acquiescence. Ashes and hope swirl in the crystal depths of hers, just as beautiful as he remembered them.

She smiles and bounces on her toes. “When must you be back in the village?”

“I have the afternoon off, although I should return an hour before the evening meal is set, to make sure Sir Brutus has no need of me.”

Pulling her hand from his grasp, she spins about, her arms stretched wide and her head thrown back. Her skirts flare around her legs. A smile wreaths her face, the sunlight gleaming off her long, black braid.

She drops to the ground, spreading her skirts in a circle around her and looks up at him expectantly. Scooping up his meat pies, he sits next to her, offers her one, but she refuses. He bites into it, heat spreading across his cheeks as she watches him eat. It is strange that this embarrasses him, but not her stumbling across him nude and floating in the river.

“I have missed these woods,” she breaks the silence. “As a girl, I used to run and play in them. My mother was forever scolding me for climbing the trees and scraping my knees or tearing my dress. She wanted me to be a lady.”

“You are a lady,” he says between bites.

“No,” she shakes her head, some of the light leaving her eyes. “My sister is a lady. I am a hellion.”

Peeta laughs, and she scowls at him.

“You find that amusing?”

He nods. “There are days I think you may not have even needed my help eight years ago. You landed an excellent kick to the mouth of one of those brutes. I believe you cost him some teeth.”

She shrugs and plucks at the grass. Peeta scoots closer, offering one of the meat pies again.

“You are perfect as you are, Katniss.”

She eyes him and reaches out to accept the meat pie, then eagerly bites into it.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

Sir Coriolanus arrives with much pomp and circumstance, including a host of thirty guards. Peeta watches discreetly as Sir Brutus puffs his chest, knowing that his men outnumber Coriolanus’s, if only because Coriolanus does not travel with all of his guards. Arrogance will aid their plan, and Peeta bites back the smile threatening to break free. Katniss stands a few paces behind Sir Brutus, her arm linked with that of Primrose, their spines ramrod straight.

Sir Coriolanus rides in, mounted on a white horse with a coat as pristine as new fallen snow. Red banners emblazoned with writhing golden serpents snap in the breeze. He brings his horse to a halt before Sir Brutus and waits for the man to bow low before dismounting.

Within days of his arrival, Sir Coriolanus has everyone on edge. He leers at Lady Katniss, and hints to her more than once that a marriage to him would be a wise choice. She plasters an attempt at a smile on her face, but to Peeta, it looks more like she is in pain. Lady Cashmere hovers about, expounding on Katniss’s virtue and clearly trying to up the bride price on both sides. And Sir Brutus stops smiling and puffing up his chest. In fact, he begins to glower, snapping at the smallest infractions. No doubt this is because he knows he could not compete with Sir Coriolanus in terms of money and power. The only advantage he has is the Everdeen homeland, and even that is not secure in his grip.

In the village, grumblings grow louder as Sir Coriolanus suggests implementing stricter rules on what ground can be tilled and how much in tithing the serfs must pay. Sir Brutus enacts many of his suggestions almost immediately, garnering no favor from the people for his cause.

From afar, Peeta keeps an eye on Lady Katniss, noting how her steps almost stomp holes in the ground beneath her, and how her back becomes more rigid as the visit wears on. Whenever he catches sight of her alone, she is scowling.

But once in the village, among people who remember her and her sister as girls, she is different. A smile. Laughter. These come more easily. She visits with many of the villagers, and talk among the serfs grows. By the end of week, they are firmly behind Lady Katniss. The past year had already been harsh, the barley crop failing, and much of the livestock suffering disease. More taxes would break the backs of the farmers. She offers them hope for relief. For something better.

When she enters the Peeta’s shop in a swirl of fabric one afternoon, he almost burns his hand.

“Blacksmith. Can you repair a bridle for my horse?”

“Yes, my lady,” he answers, his head dipping.

She scowls at him but he cuts his eyes towards the open door and the people bustling about. Her face then softens a touch and she steps in front of him, shoving a bridle in his hands. It looks fine.

“I need this repaired this afternoon,” her voice then drops to a whisper only he can hear. “I need to see you tonight.”

“Of course, my lady,” he says, turning to his workbench and placing the bridle on it. “I can have it back to you before the evening meal.”

When the moon hangs high in the sky and the manor has settled for the night, Peeta meets Katniss by the river. She paces the bank as he sits on one of the rocks, watching her. They solidify the details of their plan. Even after the details are attended to, she continues to pace.

“You will make a furrow if you do not stop that.”

“I do not know what I am to do,” she says, gesturing forcefully with her hands. “I cannot marry either of them. I cannot leave these people to be taxed until they have nothing. Something must be done.”

She turns and retraces her steps, hands messing with her hair. When she does not continue speaking, Peeta prompts her.

“It feels as though there is more to this worrying.”

Katniss sighs and finally halts, facing him. “Is this right? We are not murdering them, but is it not the same, to bait them into a fight and hope one kills the other? Sir Coriolanus is…” she shudders and shakes her hands as if to remove filth. “And Sir Brutus is no prize, but…”

Peeta braces his elbows on his knees and props his chin in his hands. “I do not know. There is no guarantee they will fight. Perhaps a shouting match, and that would be the end. But the animosity has long sat simmering between these two. If not this, then something will eventually push them to bloodshed.”

“Are you certain?”

He lifts one shoulder and looks around him, trying to find the words to explain this to her. “Sir Brutus has often spoken of ousting Sir Coriolanus, of removing himself from the chains he feels he bears. And while I cannot say for certain that Sir Brutus would challenge Sir Coriolanus on a battlefield, I can say that Sir Coriolanus would have no qualms seeing Brutus murdered to add to his gains.”

Katniss wrings her hands and resumes her pacing. He stands, halting her by placing his hands on her arms.

“We will do as you choose, Katniss. If you feel this is wrong, we will not act. I suppose it is a form of murder, though.”

“Primrose,” she says in a soft voice. “Cashmere will marry her to the one I am not wed to. She has no need of either of us beyond what gold she can glean from us. I cannot let her do this to Primrose.”

She turns away from him and looks up at the sky, her hair lifted by the soft breeze.

“It is an enormous gamble. But I cannot afford to not take it.” After long moments of silence, listening to the river, she whirls around, her face set in determination, eyes silver in the starlight. “You will speak with Cashmere tomorrow?” Peeta nods and then staggers back when Katniss throws her arms around him. “Be careful, Peeta.”

She slips away before he can return the embrace, leaving him with an aching heart and a whiff of her sweet smelling soap.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

The hard part of this is gaining an audience with Lady Cashmere. He is supposed to be invisible. A woman of her rank would never pay attention to a slave. Unless there is something she wants from him…

Katniss helps, borrowing a piece of jewelry from her aunt and then returning it broken. Within hours, one of Lady Cashmere’s maids arrives in the blacksmith’s hut, hair comb in hand, requesting his assistance. After assuring her that he is up to the task and will not destroy her mistress’s prize, he sets to work repairing it.

He waits until just before the evening meal to knock on the door to her suite and await entrance. The maid takes the hair clip and ushers him in, ordering him to wait by the fire.

“I swear I will be well rid of both of them and their airs of innocence and purity. A pair of vipers is what they are, and I do not envy either Brutus or Coriolanus their marriage beds. Lucky for them, I might still be willing to entertain them—ouch! Watch your clumsy fingers, Gertrude!” Cashmere’s voice sounds from the adjoining room, followed by mumbled words that are likely the maid’s apology. “Now, Glimmer, my dear. Remember, the bedroom is the battlefield where women are victorious. The dining hall is merely an extension of the bedroom, so one must always look your best for meals. Oh! My hair comb. I never should have loaned it to that oaf. Is the blacksmith here, Amelia?”

“Yes, my lady. He awaits you in the other room.”

Lady Cashmere enters the room in a cloud of expensive fabrics and gleaming golden hair. Jewels adorn her neck, gifts from her late husband or one of her many lovers. Peeta bows to her.

“My, my, my,” she purrs. He remains bent over as she slowly circles him. “Stand up and let me get a look at you.”

Peeta complies, keeping his eyes downcast. She holds the hair comb beneath his nose. “I know my jewelry, blacksmith, and this repair work is quite impressive. You have nimble fingers.” Then she picks up one of his hands to toy with his fingers and he fights the urge to pull his hand back. “I wonder what else these fingers could accomplish.”

This is quickly going in a direction he did not anticipate. He planned on playing to her vanity, but this complicates things. He deftly shifts his plan.

“I would not wish milady to be seen in anything but the finest,” he murmurs.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she says. Dropping his hand, she turns to the small gathering of maids in her room. “Out, all of you. Take my little Glimmer downstairs for a sweet treat.”

Once the hustle of maids leaving the room ends, Cashmere whirls back around to face him. “You intrigue me. My maids share gossip with me. I know all about you, slave.”

The last word slithers off her tongue and she begins to circle him again. Her fingers run up over the back of his thighs, skirting his buttocks, and Peeta strains to remain perfectly still under her examination.

“A shame it is time to eat. I can think of so many more pleasurable things to be doing.”

Peeta swallows and forces himself to play the charade, to play with the fire. “Forgive me, my lady. I am but a humble slave and blacksmith. You could have any man you desired. What would you want with me?”

She throws her head back in laughter. “Because I am a woman of great appetite.”

“The bedroom is your battlefield, my lady?”

“Yes,” she smiles wickedly at him. “Yes, it is, slave. And I am very good at winning the battle.”

“I do not doubt it,” he whispers, meeting her gaze for the first time and hoping she sees interest there. “Do you enjoy the battle?”

“Very much,” she answers, stepping closer. “But I would not view you as an opponent. In my experience, men of low rank have no ego to bruise and everything to lose, thus they are eager to please their ladies. I would see you as an ally.”

She splays her hand on his chest, her fingernails piercing him through his tunic. Then she sighs.

“Sadly, I have several fronts to this battlefield, and as much as I would enjoy a night with you, I have to deal with another matter first.”

Peeta licks his lips and takes the leap. “Sir Coriolanus and Sir Brutus.”

She stiffens a little, then relaxes with laughter. “You and I are much alike, slave. We rely on the whispers and tales that spread through the walls. A wildfire of information for anyone willing to listen. Do you have something to offer?”

“Perhaps,” he says, lifting her necklace and letting his finger skim over her pale skin.

Cashmere bites her lips and leans towards him. “Speak, slave. I am expected downstairs soon.”

“You wish a high bride price and to be rid of your charges, yet both potential suitors are too busy posturing in an ego competition and delay making a true offer, secure of their victory because of their relations with you,” he watches the subtle shift in her eyes, knowing he’s hit the mark. “Perhaps all they need is a little push.”

Not five minutes later, Peeta slips from her chambers with his cheeks burning, Lady Cashmere’s girdle and one of her stockings tucked in a pouch tied to his belt, and the strong desire to take a bath.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

They meet once more by the river’s edge. No details to discuss or plots to hatch. Peeta stands staring at the rippling surface, mulling over what they have discussed and committing it to memory, an escape plan in case things go wrong. A messenger has been dispatched to ensure the small band of soldiers loyal to Katniss is ready and waiting in the woods. She sits a few feet away, her knees bent up beneath her skirts and hugged to her chest. Tomorrow, on the premise of repairing a window pane, Peeta will leave the items in Sir Coriolanus’s bed to be found by Sir Brutus’s servants. Then, they will simply sit back and watch as the play unfolds.

“Peeta, if this does not work,” Katniss says, hesitating until he looks up at her. “If this does not work, would you leave with me? I…I cannot stomach the idea of leaving you to either Coriolanus or Brutus.”

Peeta sits beside her, placing his arm around her and pulling her close. She turns her face into his shoulder, her arms still wrapped around her knees.

“Katniss, I am marked a slave.”

“Then wear the gauntlets and travel as my personal guard. No one would see the brand.”

“Katniss…”

“I do not know all the details yet, Peeta. Only that if this does not work, I cannot stay. And I want you to come with me.”

“Well,” he jokes. “I can provide excellent protection from thieves and marauders.”

She nudges her shoulder into him and settles pressed more closely to his body.

“But you would no longer have need of me.”

Katniss shakes her head. “Yes I would,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

He tries not to let those words take root in his mind. It is a dangerous thought. One that could lead him to hope their plan actually fails. And he certainly does not wish that for her.

All he needs do is remind himself that if they fled, she and Primrose would eventually be forced into a life of need and dependence she cannot possibly fathom, worse than depending on the charity of wealthy relatives. He rests his cheek atop her head and banishes the foolish daydreams of things that cannot be, concentrating instead on what must be done.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

Peeta avoids the hall after his task is complete, although the news spreads quickly. Shortly after the noon meal, Lady Katniss visits his hut, requesting he make her some new arrows. She hands him one of hers as an example and whispers to him.

“It worked. Brutus challenged Coriolanus to a tournament. Single combat. They fight tomorrow. My hand is the prize.”

With a sly smile, she leaves, and Peeta prepares for Cashmere’s wrath. This part, he did not discuss with Katniss. To make her claim hold, she must be free of suspicion in this. He expects Cashmere to be adverse to the possibility of one of her chess pieces dying.

But Cashmere never visits. Nor does she summon him.

Perhaps she fears suspicion if she consorts too closely with a slave. Or she fears the wildfire of whispers will reveal their conspiracy. Either way, her silence is unnerving.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

A cold wind sweeps through the area the night before the tournament. Morning breaks with biting chills and a thick blanket of gray clouds that obscure the sky. A small crowd gathers around the training fields, curious farmers and laborers. A few slaves. Peeta pulls his rough cloak more tightly around his shoulders. Nervous chatter courses through the waiting people as Sir Brutus and Sir Coriolanus walk onto the field, accompanied by one man each.

They face off, ribbons of steam lifting from nostrils. The clash of swords rings loudly in the frigid air, bounces off the wall of the nearby hall. The crowd murmurs as Sir Brutus makes an aggressive advance. He slips on a patch of mud and Sir Coriolanus’s blade slices across his bicep.

Just a scratch, but the crowd gasps. Brutus clenches his jaw and renews his attack. They circle and lunge, neither gaining the advantage, although Sir Coriolanus begins to breath more harshly. Sweat darkens his white hair and Brutus’s lips twitch with a smile.

Peeta stares at his master, wondering at the tick in his cheek. The way he occasionally shakes his head, as if to clear cobwebs from his brain. His movements grow sluggish.

Sir Coriolanus’s arm droops and Brutus advances, swinging sword and shield in rapid hits until with a clang, the Snake Lord’s sword flies from his hand and falls to the earth with a squelch of mud. He raises his hand, but Sir Brutus is not interested in mercy. With one last swipe of his sword across an exposed throat, he ends Sir Coriolanus’s life.

The people gathered to watch murmur and Peeta looks at the ground, mind already racing in thought. Plans for escape or finishing Brutus, he cannot decide.

The noise of the crowd increases as the sea of people parts, making way for Lady Katniss. Her soft orange dress and fawn colored cloak swirl around her ankles as she strides towards the field, bow in hand and dagger tucked into her girdle. Sir Brutus grins in triumph, rotating his injured arm.

He takes unsteady steps towards Katniss and slips. Slips again before falling. Saliva foams at his mouth and Katniss yells for a healer. One rushes to Sir Brutus’s side. Peeta watches with a small stab of remorse as his master grabs the healer’s tunic and looks up in terror as the man bends over him to check the arm.

“The wound is poisoned!” The healer shouts out and cries of indignation arise from the field. Cato shouts an order for Coriolanus’s men to be arrested. Soldiers spring to action and chaos follows as villagers rush to escape the skirmish.

He loses track of Katniss in the crush of people, helping several children out of the area to avoid being trampled under soldier’s boots. Shouts and the sounds of battle fill the air, the clash of swords and the clang of shields. Finally, he spots her, shoving Primrose back inside the keep and yelling orders at her. The great door shuts and Katniss holds her ground in front of it, firing arrows at enemies that approach her. Peeta fights his way back towards her, smashing the heads of two soldiers together and tossing them, unconscious, out of his way.

The fight does not last long, and when it ends, Katniss stands on the steps to the hall, a half dozen men bearing Sir Coriolanus’s crest kneeling before her. Cato stands beside her, a cut still bleeding on his cheek and his lips twisted in a sneer. Peeta’s heart hammers. He can do nothing to help her now. It is all in her hands.

“I am Lady Katniss of Everdeen.” Her shout reverberates off the hall and soars over the people. “My father was Lord of this hall until he was brutally murdered eight years ago by the one Sir Brutus called brother. Sir Brutus now lays dead at the hands of Sir Coriolanus. I claim Everdeen as it is my birthright.”

Cato starts to protest and Katniss aims an arrow at him. The crowd gasps at the speed of her actions.

“Do you challenge me, Cato?”

Cato eyes the weapon in her hands then grudgingly kneels. Sir Brutus’s soldiers follow suit and a resounding cheer rings up from the people.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

With the village in an uproar, Peeta slips away to the blacksmith hut. He waited until Katniss’s loyal men arrived to help her secure her claim. The company of soldiers rode in to cheers from the villagers. At their head rode a tall man with black hair and a proud mein. He was uncommonly handsome, and as soon as he dismounted, knelt before Katniss then swept her into an embrace, twirling with her so that her skirts flared wide and she laughed, clinging to his shoulders.

Peeta is needed in the hall no more. But there are still things to be done. Weapons and tacking will not magically repair themselves now that Katniss has reclaimed her ancestral home. Shutting out the happy noises of the serfs, he stokes the fire and pulls his leather apron back on, twisting his gauntlets to seat them.

He’s halfway through his third repair, mentally planning the fabrication of a shield bearing the Everdeen crest which he will need to start making for her guard when the door squeaks open, momentarily letting in the sounds of revelry. Turning, he greets the young woman in peasant garb as she shuts the door. She pulls back her hood and smiles at him.

“Katniss,” he gasps. “You should be out there. Your people need you.”

“They are celebrating, Peeta. Why are you not?”

“I had a few repairs I neglected earlier.” Peeta turns back to the shield propped on his work table, ignoring her approach. It is rude to turn his back on his Lady. She would be within her rights to have him flayed. Instead, she steps close on silent feet, forces him to drop the shield he was replacing the strap on with a loud clang.

“My lady, you should not be here.” He lets her turn his shoulders so they are facing one another. He lets her lace their fingers together, and he even gives her hands a squeeze. As his new mistress, she can do whatever she wishes with him, and so he stands there as she rises on her toes and leans towards him. He would be lying if he said his heart did not yearn for her to do these things.

“Peeta,” she whispers against his lips. “I needed to see you. I…I want…”

She does not tell him what she wants but instead kisses him. His head reels with the taste of her, his hands release hers to press against her back, holding her to him. Her arms wind around his neck, breasts flattening against his pounding heart as her fingers tangle in his hair. When she pulls back so they may both breathe, he shakes his head.

“I am still a slave, Katniss.”

“No. I am Lady of this estate now. All that belonged to Brutus now belongs to me.” She grasps his wrist behind her, prying his arm out to the side and turning it, fleshy side and palm up. Slowly, she unlaces the gauntlet and discards it, returns her touch to him, running her fingers over the brand. Currents made of lightning shoot up his arm and drawing air becomes a struggle. “And I would have you free.”

“Free or slave, Katniss, we cannot be.”

“Do not tell me what cannot be,” she insists and kisses him again, roughly this time. Oh, he is lost. Completely hers. “Tell me instead what _you_ desire.”

“I desire you. You must know that,” he traces a finger down her cheek and lifts her chin that he may kiss her neck and nuzzle the tender flesh. “I love you.”

“Then meet my by the river at midnight,” she urges.

He shakes his head. “You will have to marry one day very soon. To protect your lands and your sister. Find someone who is worthy to love you. Someone who can be your partner. I am not that man. You need someone like that hawk who rode in today, leading your men. ”

“And yet you still kiss me,” she teases. Her words douse him in shame and he tries to set her aside. She fights him. “No, Peeta. Do not push me away. _I_ choose _you_. Does that mean nothing?”

“It means everything, Katniss. But—“

Her lips devour him and he is powerless to resist. When she finally ends the kiss, leaving them panting while the forge still blazes, she rests her brow against his, eyes pleading with him.

“Then meet me tonight. We can figure out the rest tomorrow.”

“I will hang for this.”

“I will not allow it. I forbid you to die.”

“Yes, my lady,” he whispers before taking her lips once more in a frenzied kiss.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

Slinking through the woods, Peeta reaches the river just before midnight. Finding Katniss not there yet, he relaxes against a tree and gazes up at the stars glittering in the night sky. Although he cannot marry Katniss, he is stupidly willing to have this one night with her. In the morning, he will request papers from her, granting his freedom, and after training a new blacksmith for her, he will leave. For her sake. For her protection. It is what they have done since that day they saved each other in the meadow. The soothing sounds of the river calm his jumpy nerves. Lulling him into a dream-like state.

“You should choose your allies more carefully,” a harsh voice rings out as a shadow materializes from the woods. “Or at least be more cautious about betraying them.”

Peeta leaps to his feet, narrowly avoiding the swing of the sword. Cato circles him, testing the weight of his sword in his hand, the stars flashing in the well-honed blade.

“Careful, Cato. You know I can best you in this fight. Even unarmed.”

Cato scoffs. “Not tonight, slave. Lady Cashmere told me everything. About how you rigged the duel between my uncle and Sir Coriolanus. You knew he would use poison on his blade.”

A swipe of the sword and Peeta side-steps.

“I did not.”

“And still my uncle is dead and you live to meet in secret with that harlot who claims to be a lady.”

Cato charges, and Peeta is ready. His opponent is careless and fueled by rage. They grapple for a moment and Cato twists the sword down, slicing Peeta’s leg, up high on his thigh. Peeta staggers and flings Cato to ground. The impact jolts his sword from his grip and Peeta advances on unsteady feet.

Then, Cato begins to laugh. “Idiot slave. I gave Cashmere what she wanted where you did not. She told me where to find Coriolanus’s poison. And now, you have fallen to the same trick as my uncle.”

The world tilts at a nauseating angle, Cato becomes fuzzy around the edges. Peeta’s heart pumps madly even as he wills it to slow down. Cato stands and Peeta stumbles towards him, then loses his footing and crashes to earth, limbs and face twitching with pain.

“A stronger dose for you, slave. I do not have time to make the same mistake as Coriolanus. And I will end this night with your woman’s neck in my hands. Perhaps I will first take what she was foolishly willing to give to you.”

Peeta yells, hoping to warn her as his vision tunnels, blackness with pinpricks of yellow covers his eyes and his throat turns dry.

“Peeta!” He hears her shout from far away.

“Katniss,” he whispers, unable to call out a further warning to her. And then the distant sounds of a scuffle and a high pitched, masculine scream rend the night.

“Peeta!” Her footsteps crash over the forest underbrush.

He reaches out, but cannot lift his hand higher than his head. It falls and splashes into the edges of the river.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

_Long ago in a far off land,_  
_Or so the tales begin,_  
_Yet our tale is not bound by time nor space._  
_Strength of Heart and Heroes’ Feats,_  
_Star-crossed Love and Villains Foul,_  
_These things belong to every age._  
_Recall our Hero of ancient lands_  
_With twelve deeds to complete._  
_As yet he has not earned his love,_  
_A life left incomplete._  
_Join now his journey to a time_  
_And world no stranger than our very own._

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

TO BE CONTINUED…

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: In which I ramble a lot and spout off a bunch of things that are not necessary to enjoy the story, but provide an explanation for the creative process.  
> The information on the topic of reincarnation beliefs in ancient Greece, as far as I could tell, varies somewhat. One widely accepted version is that upon death, your soul was judged. The truly wicked were sent to the Fields of Punishment to be…punished, imagine that. Those who led average lives, which was the majority of people, spent eternity wandering in the Fields of Asphodel, which wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t great either. Those who led truly great lives were given admittance to the Elysian Fields (also referred to as Elysium). Opinions vary on who would be allowed reincarnation. One theory is that those who reached Elysium in three separate lives would be granted entrance to a special part of Elysium known as the Isles of the Blest. Before reincarnation, memories would be wiped via a bath in the River Lethe, or the River of Oblivion, one of the five rivers of the Underworld.  
> In the original myths, which also vary a little based on source, Herakles (Hercules in Roman and modern traditions) was reported to be a son of Zeus and a mortal woman. Hera, the goddess of marriage and family, and also Zeus’s wife, was always angered by Zeus’s infidelities. Since she could not take her wrath out on Zeus himself, she took every opportunity to do so on his demigod children. Herakles, whose name ironically means “glory of Hera,” was a favorite target of hers, perhaps because he was one of the most famous and revered.  
> Megara was a princess of Thebes, given to Herakles in marriage after he helped repel an invading army from her home. They were purported to be in love and had anywhere from 3-8 children, depending on the source. Pissed that he was happy, Hera induced a madness in Herakles that made him view the ones he loved as threatening…hijacking, anyone? Most versions of the story have Herakles murdering his children, but not Megara, although a few do have him murdering her as well. In penance for the murder of his children, he was tasked with his twelve labors to cleanse himself. He spent time as a slave, and then in the service of a king, Eurystheus while completing the labors. A few versions have him end his life afterwards, unable to live with what he did, most have him going on to have many more adventures and children as well as at least two more wives.  
> Megara, in the versions in which she does survive, was given to someone else in marriage, as divorce was not unheard of in ancient Greece, and the murder of their children would give her ample grounds to divorce Herakles.  
> In making this Everlark’s tale, I believed that Katniss (who I’ve cast as Megara), would be extremely protective of their children and seen to their safety and then dealt with her madness riddled husband. Thus, the complete inversion of the popular versions of the tale with the children being spirited away and Megara dying at Herakles’s hands. Also, in keeping with the personalities of Everlark, Hercules/Peeta, is unable to face the death of his love at his own hands and chooses immediate death and reincarnation, with the help of Apollo, to begin the process of redeeming himself through his twelve tasks. I took some liberty in allowing him a reincarnation after murdering his wife. The gods tended to act on favoritism, and at the time he supposedly murdered his family, Hercules was favored by several of the gods, among them Hermes, Athena, and Apollo. Since I have him murdering his wife but not his children, I don’t think it’s too far of a stretch that they might show him some leniency at this point, although Hades may have had some objections. ;-)  
> THE TWELVE LABORS OF HERCULES (In the Order I have shown them thus far):  
> Chapter 1 - 12th Century Europe  
> Capture the Erymanthian Boar – Shown as the man who attacks Katniss and kills her father when she and Peeta first meet. Although Katniss ultimately kills him, Peeta made it possible for her to do so.  
> Kill the Nemean Lion – Sir Brutus is our Nemean Lion for this tale. The Nemean Lion was rumored to have a hide so tough, no blade could penetrate it, thus why I have Coriolanus killing him with poison, in a fight that our very sneaky Peeta orchestrated.  
> Kill the Lernean Hydra – A hydra was a snake-like monster whose blood was poisonous. Coriolanus Snow makes for a pretty decent Hydra, I think. But remember, cut off one head and two shall take its place.  
> Retrieve the Girdle of the Amazon Queen Hippolyte – Cashmere is our Amazon Queen, and as in the myth, gives the girdle willingly to Hercules/Peeta, but eventually is led to believe that she has been deceived and tries to have Hercules killed. Sadly, Cashmere succeeds in getting Peeta killed with a little help from Cato, perhaps because Peeta actually does deceive her a little.


End file.
